


Just My Type

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Muggle AU, Pansy gets tired of waiting on Percy to make a move, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24151252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Percy Weasley has it bad for one of his co-workers, who also happens to be an actual princess... So he decides he just won’t ever say anything about it. Pansy decides to shake things up!MUGGLE AU Drabble.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Percy Weasley
Comments: 42
Kudos: 35
Collections: You Pick Two





	Just My Type

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to LadyKenz347 for organizing this comp! And endless thanks to my beta, who shall remain nameless for the time being. All remaining errors are my own. 
> 
> No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

The archive door bursts open, an unexpected shock to his system. Percy is so startled he drops his £457 Montblanc fountain pen, blotting and smudging his notes in the process. The pen rolls to the edge of the table, falling to the old carpeted floor before he’s able to collect himself.

His hands press against the table as he lifts himself from the antique chair, ready to lecture the intruder on proper etiquette of room entering—

—but all word and thought dissipates as he meets the sparkling dark eyes of Pansy Parkinson. 

_Princess Pansy Parkinson,_ he admonishes himself silently. Because it’s irrelevant that she was classmates with his brother forever ago at private school and he’s always known who she is. It means nothing that she’s now worked with Percy for ten months and twelve days or that he’s fallen for her charm, work ethic, and fresh perspective. 

The facts always remain thus: she’s a princess, while he’s the lowly third-born son of an earl in comparison to her many suitors.

“Are you going to gaze and stare and pine forever? Or has sufficient time passed for us to be at enough ease to see each other outside of work?” 

Nothing she says computes—there’s no way he’s been _that_ obvious. He’s always been _so_ careful and discrete in his admiring...

She’s still talking, though, and he tears his gazes from her full lips to better focus. “I’m a princess in title alone. I’m too far down the line for the throne, and no one gives a stitch what I say or do.” 

“Tell that to the tabloids,” he snorts, lowering himself to his seat, feeling more at ease with facts and snark. 

“Ah, so you have been jealous as of late, haven’t you?” Her gaze is feral in its triumph, but she continues before he can utter a word of protest. “Would it make any difference at all for you to note that over the last ten months and twelve days of working with you, everything you’ve read has been greatly exaggerated?” 

“Greatly _exaggerated_?” It’s a struggle to keep up—surely, she can’t mean... He shoves his glasses up his nose, and not because they’re in need of adjusting. 

She smiles, humming, and it’s like the glow of the sun itself as she places her clutch and some file on the table across from him. “Draco’s my go-to escort for every gala because it’s expected and because he’s not ready for the world to know of the scandal brewing that he’s fallen in love with an American. Theo is wrapped around Astoria’s little finger, but they’re keeping things quiet until big sister Daphne makes her announcement about the pregnancy. Cassius is pretty enough to look at, but I find myself thinking his shade of red is all wrong. And brown eyes should never be paired with red hair.” 

“They shouldn’t?” he croaks like Toad from Toad Hall, and hang it all, it’s ridiculous how his mind is reeling—but it’s just _so_ much. Every royal ponce he’s been jealous of for nearly a year... Every smile, giggle, and touch of the hand captured by the lense of a camera... 

“No. I fancy blue eyes—Arctic blue, to be precise. Always have. So piercing and full of hidden secrets. And a dusting of freckles across the nose, smattered up cheeks...” She trails off and heat blooms across his face as her knuckles softly brush over one of his too-freckles cheeks. 

Or perhaps they’re not too-freckled, after all.

“I’ll elaborate over drinks tonight,” she says.

“What if I’m not free?” he counters, feeling more himself in the familiar territory of debate. 

“You are. I’ve already checked with your secretary.” 

_Damn._ It’s decided. He’s _definitely_ in love. He loves the gloss of her hair and the way it swishes around her face. He loves the flecks of gold that flash in her coffee-brown eyes, but more than anything, he loves her fearless passion for life and believes now more than ever she’s the perfect complement to his stodgy, by-the-book ways. 

He thinks he’s going to kiss her tonight, and if he’s lucky, she’ll accept when he offers for her to come back to his flat with him. Maybe she’ll decide she never wants to leave. 

“Drinks,” he parrots at last, and her smile somehow brightens. “Yes, drinks. And dinner. Anywhere you’d like.” 

“Perfect.” She collects her clutch and file from the table and makes for the door, hips swaying as if they’re begging for him to follow. Follow and cage her against the door before turning her and permitting his fingers to find purchase against those curves as he claims her mouth with his... 

“Stare any harder and I’ll burst into flames before we’ve had a proper date, love.” Her fingers are wrapped around the old doorknob as he blinks himself from his fantasy. She’s halfway out the door as he sits and vows to fulfill it another time—soon, very soon—when she pauses and gives him a look over her shoulder. A look and wink. 

A. _Wink_. 

“It’s funny, but in knowing you, I think I’ve come to know myself better, Percy Weasley.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes. I thought I knew what I wanted for so long, and you turned that all upside down by coming along and showing me that a bit of Weasley is just my type—so long as it’s _your_ type of Weasley.” 

He shoves at his glasses, blushing up to the tips of his ears as she vanishes through the door. It takes all the self-restraint in his possession not to bolt around the table and through the door, chasing after her to say she’s been his type for _ages_. He can be patient, though. Proper and dignified and all that. He manages to sit and fumble for his pen, but it’s impossible to focus on anything other than the fact life as he knows it has ceased and transformed into something new. 

Something more.


End file.
